sweet pastoral nothings

to think that we were just here, sitting together on the rocks of a river - a clear day. before us was the stream, the mountains, and infinity, all wrapped into a narrow passage carved out by thousands of years of currents. but now i'm still here and you're back home - three hundred hours away. and before we know it, this river will freeze over but both of us won't be here to see it in the winter. sure, we will be together again, but far away from this place. we won't have any means of getting here. and the nightmare begins, the thought that we might see this infinite backdrop in the summer again, but never in the winter.

and the water of the river folds and refolds itself - over and over again.

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